You Ruined Me
by BakaAnnsan101
Summary: Two years. Exactly two years since Sherlock...left. John lived half alive. And now, risen from the dead, Sherlock must pick up the pieces of his broken best friend. But maybe, just maybe, something more. A coping mechanism to dealing with all those Johnlock feels...don't be worried about the angst. It's all fairytales and happy endings for me. SPOILERS FOR SERIES 1-2 ONLY.


"Growth in love comes from a place of absence, where the imagination is left to its own devices and creates you to be much more than reality would ever allow."

― Coco J. Ginger

~*X*~

If there were a place on Earth that escaped all facets of reality, were void of all life, light, and love, a kind of _vacuum_ to the emotions that were humane—that would be John Watson. Though, _this_ John, _this_ dark and broken man, is not the same 'John' those rare few who knew him prior would tell you he was. _This _John isn't even who people would tell you 'John' was today. It was a static memory, diminishing with time. Some called it healing, forgetting and moving on—but to _this _John, it was giving up on something very, _very_ dear. And as bewildering as it was, this man was slowly losing hope.

Slowly killing the John Watson that was.

And if this concept of such a depth of grief fails you, you should be glad. Because our John _now?_ He was nothing more than an occupant of space; a man _only_ surviving day-to-day.

Nighttime was the singular stretch of time when John would let his thoughts wander to anything out of routine. It was an inexpressible connection he felt, under the London moon, to a person long gone and unspoken of that made his nights sleep-deprived and thought-filled. Despite the given concern of Mary and some of his closer friends, John barely slept for longer than three hours at a time. And this was one of these nights, humid July, lying in bed with glassy eyes and staring at a bedroom ceiling.

_Sherlock_. The whisper of a name came. John used to fight it—the feelings and the past that would haunt him. He had moved on now, he told himself, he was a changed man; and changed men did not mourn of the past. And Sherlock was in the past. Because, dear _god_, did he mourn.

It was his vulnerability in the waking nights that broke down his stone encasings. John could remember how Sherlock, too, had gone without sleep for days at a time—and how he was always there to remind him. John could remember the smell of early mornings, always panic and fear in the instance that Sherlock had taken an experiment too far. He could remember late nights, long after he had fallen asleep listening to the detective mumble on, waking suddenly to a sad violin melody and a crick in his neck from the armchair that was his. He could remember the flat and the creak on the third step, or the swish and slam of the door when a case was especially exciting.

But mostly came the memories of Sherlock. Sherlock who was unspoken of in the daylight, was always the centre of John's thoughts here, on nights like this one. Sherlock who was the smartest man he had ever—and _would ever have_—met. Sherlock who always put on a convincing heartless front, who didn't let himself love and be loved. Sherlock who many, _many _people loved anyway. Sherlock who was his flatmate—his _life's _focus, his _best friend_, his _home, _his-.

The sun made an abrupt appearance at the window of John Watson's conscience. And the thoughts went with the night sky as morning approached.

Another day in John Watson's life. To put up that re-built stone and mortar wall again; to allow himself to shove and kick all else into a dark corner of his mind, John Watson spent each and every day sinking into normalcy. Because nothing ever happened to _this_ John Watson.

But something _did_ happen to him.

This something came and went in the long, gloomy shape of the world's only consulting detective. As long arms and legs tucked inside of suits and silk trousers, and when winter came, that jacket of his, the collar turned up.

Because, yes. Sherlock Holmes had happened to John Watson.

And John had gotten to accompany him in his world; flying high and living, _really_ _living._ But when Sherlock had—had _gone_… 'John Watson' wasn't _living_ anymore. He had died with his best friend two years ago that day. Sherlock had given him life in every sense of the word.

_And then you ruined me,_ John thought before drifting into sleep as dawn arrived.

~*X*~


End file.
